Salvation
by Dragynflies
Summary: You’ve got Blythe back, and you’ve seen Nathan through babyhood, but you’re not going to throw away your chance to do one entirely right. Sequel to Eradication
1. Chapter 1

When Cuddy tells you Wilson is coming back to PPTH, you laugh and tell her you've known for a week, ever since he talked to you about it. She looks shocked for a moment, but recovers nicely and tells you not to fuck it up this time.

You go with Allison to her first OB appointment. She is 9 weeks along, and you listen to the heartbeat with Allison and you hold her hand and when the nurse prints out a copy of the ultrasound, you ask for an extra one for your wallet.

You've got Blythe back, and you've seen Nathan through babyhood, but you're not going to throw away your chance to do one entirely right.

When she is 18 weeks along, you sit down with Nathan and Blythe. Blythe already knows that Allison is pregnant, but Nathan sits on your lap and listens with wide eyes as you explain to him that in five or six months, he's going to be a big brother. Allison smoothes her shirt down and they both put little hands on her tummy and giggle when the baby kicks.

You hand Blythe an envelope and ask her if she wants to find out what the baby is, or if she wants to wait until the baby is born. You want her to have an active role in this child's life, and you've made it your mission to make sure that she understands completely how loved she really is.

"In that envelope," Allison explains, "we had the doctor put the baby's ultrasound picture, and write if the baby is a boy or a girl. Daddy and I want you to decide what you want to do with it."

Allison looks like she's going to jump off the couch. She admitted to you in the car that if Blythe took off with that envelope, she might have to use force to find out. You were adamant – you played dirty and reminded her how pushed aside Robert had made Blythe had feel during her last pregnancy, and she'd conceded.

It looks like she has nothing to worry about, because Blythe is ripping into the envelope and reads the word to herself. She glances at Allison and smirks.

"I know what the baby is," your daughter announces with a smirk, and then kneels down next to Nathan to whisper in his ear.

Sometimes she is so much like you. You love it.

You rub Allison's back, because she looks like she's going to pass out. Blythe nods at Nathan and he climbs up into your lap and pats Allison's rounded tummy.

"Sister," he says solemnly, and Allison bursts into happy tears. You don't tell her, but you think she'd have been equally delighted with a boy. She just wanted to know.

Blythe and Nathan are best friends, and you're so glad. You have a hard time forgetting what Robert did, and you are glad that Blythe doesn't blame Nathan. At three, he is all boy and nothing like Blythe, but she never leaves him behind. She reads to him at night, and shows him what letters make what sounds.

You'd moved into a new house just before Blythe's sixth birthday, a four bedroom located ten minutes outside of town. You're not sure where the baby is going to go, but you'll worry about that later. Allison will want her in the bedroom for the first six months anyway, and maybe Blythe wants to share her room. Maybe you should just move…you and Allison are already crammed into the same home office, the girls will have to share a room…you might as well go for broke and get a six bedroom. And a vasectomy.

Three kids are three more than you ever thought you'd have, and you wouldn't trade them for anything.

Wilson, Emily and Gregory come over and sometimes, if you take a step back and look at your evenings together – two guys sitting back with beer, while their pregnant wives coo over belly size and three children already tearing around the living room – you think you've fallen into one of those horribly written romance novels or a Lifetime movie.

Emily is three months further along than Allison is. When Emily goes into labor, you go to the hospital to pick up Gregory for the night, and the next day you and Allison haul the brood in to see Isabel.

"Girls everywhere," you mutter at Wilson, and Allison overhears and smacks you in the back of the head, a teasing smile on her face. Emily is clinging to the baby, counting the baby's little fingers and toes and you can tell Allison wants so badly to hold Isabel but doesn't want to break the spell.

"Em, share her," you order, poking in the direction of the baby with your cane, "Or you're going to have a crying pregnant woman on your hands."

Emily smiles and gently passes the baby to Allison, who cradles her carefully and coos at her.

"Three more months," she tells you happily.

"You want a paper chain?" you ask, and she snorts, "This is the last one, Allison. I mean it. I don't want to have a baseball team."

"Baseball!" Nathan shrieks, "I want baseball, Daddy."

"We can watch baseball," you tell him, pulling him onto your good leg, "Just not have a family team."

Emily and Allison roll their eyes in such perfect unison that you think they've been practicing.

Nathan falls asleep in the car on the way home, and you scoop him up into your arms with practiced ease, carefully balancing him on your hip and shoulder while Allison and Blythe go ahead and open the door.

As you tuck in your sleeping son, all you can think everything is turning out perfect. You alternate between loving every minute of it and waiting for it all come crashing down.


	2. Chapter 2

Allison goes into labor two weeks after Isabel is born. She spent the day running errands with Nathan, picked Blythe up from school, and was in the middle of making dinner when the contractions started.

Blythe calls you at work, and you could hear the tremble in her voice, "Daddy, you have to come get Mama," she tells you, "because Mama thinks the baby is coming."

You and Wilson are in the car, you are driving as fast as you can and Wilson is on the phone, trying to make arrangements. He calls Emily, who is at home with Gregory and Isabel, to go sit with Nathan and Blythe. You call Cuddy, and she tells you to bring Allison to the ER entrance and she'll have everything ready to go.

You pull into the driveway seconds after Emily, and you are once again struck dumb at how amazing your friends are, to drop everything to help you.

Nathan and Blythe are in Blythe's bedroom on Allison's orders and she is sitting in the living room, holding her stomach and crying. Emily walks in and heads straight to the children, Isabel in her arms and Gregory tailing her. Wilson doesn't speak, just scoops her up and carries her to the car, setting her in the backseat and you are on your way back to the hospital.

You're fucking useless and you hate yourself for your leg. You sit in back with Allison on the way to the hospital, you try to be reassuring but for the first time in your life, words fail you. You settle for wiping the tears off her cheeks and holding her hand; she knows you are there, no matter what.

When Wilson pulls up to the ER, you're shoved out of the way as her doctor and the nurses crowd around her, putting in IV lines and bending her legs apart to check for dilation. You consent to whatever it is he tries to ask you, all you hear is "stop the labor" and "Allison will be fine" and you agree. Why can't you remember anything you learned in Med school?

Three hours later, you're allowed in to see her. She's sound asleep, her skin ashen and her cheeks are stained with tears. The baby is fine, your eyes scan the monitors around her bed on autopilot. The steady beeps reassure you.

You sink down into the hard plastic chair next to her bed and put your hand over her belly. Your daughter kicks and you choke back a sob. You could have lost her.

You're so focused on the gentle kick under your palm that you don't see Allison wake up. Her little hand covers yours and you raise your eyes to her pallid face.

"Hey," you murmur, reaching up to brush fingers over her cheek and tuck her hair behind your ear, "If you wanted more time off of work, you should have just asked your boss."

"Is the baby okay?" she asks, her hands on her stomach, like she's checking to make sure she's still there.

"She's fine," you tell her, trying to be reassuring, "Your doctor will want to talk to you about what you want to do, now that you're awake."

"Bed rest?" Allison asks, and you catch the note of impatience in her voice. She'll do whatever she has to for the baby, but she doesn't like sitting still for a day, much less the next 12 weeks.

"You're stuck here until she's born," you say simply, "You're on medication. And," you continue when she starts to protest being at the hospital for the coming weeks, "here, you have to rest. I can come see you often. If you're home, you've got Nathan running around and you won't rest. You'll get up 'just one time' and the next thing you know you'll be running around again."

Allison is quiet, her hands rubbing gentle circles on her belly, "Okay," she whispers, "Maybe my mom will come to watch Nathan and Blythe. We can't ask Wilson and Emily to take them, not so soon after Isabel..."

"Wilson says you need to stop worrying," you tell her firmly, "Emily is fine, Blythe is a good helper and Nathan and Gregory play well together. Emily doesn't mind helping out, and I'll call the school so that Blythe gets dropped off there instead of at our house. All you need to worry about is resting."

Allison nods and sighs, reaching for your hand, "I'm sorry," she mumbles, twining your fingers together and closing her eyes, "I should have been more careful. Blythe and Nathan were both early, I should have known."

"It's not your fault," you tell her gruffly, brushing your thumb over the soft skin of her hand, "You didn't do anything wrong. It's just going to be some really boring weeks until she's big enough to come out."

"Yeah," she mumbles, and sighs again, "She's worth it. I have to call work…I have good fellows. Kaysen and Markham need to learn how to swim without floaties," she says, though you can tell she wasn't planning on leaving them alone quite yet. You know she's a good doctor and teacher and that her fellows respect her. The three of them work well together.

"I'll call them," you offer, and you stand up, kissing her forehead, "You sleep, alright? I'll bring you some books when I go home."

She nods and tips her head up for a kiss before you leave. You find Wilson and fill him in, and he tells you that he and Emily will help in any way they can.

You're lucky to have him back in your life, and you're not going to blow it again.

"Thank you," you tell him, sincerely, and you sigh raggedly and drop into the chair in his office.

Things are going to be okay. Things have to be okay.


	3. Chapter 3

The next weeks pass in a horrible haze of exhaustion and fear. Allison is ready to jump out of her skin; she hasn't spent this much time in bed since she was a child, and while she's willing to do this for her baby, she hates it and you can tell.

You feel like you never stop moving. You go in an hour early to work to see Allison and bring her breakfast (she hates the hospital food and you want her to eat something), you rush to your office to catch up on your patient, and send your three fellows scattering to run tests.

You stop in to see her at lunch and bring her whatever she wants. She's read every single book on her "to read someday" list. You won't let her read any medical journals or any patient folders, because you know she will stress herself out, not able to see the patient.

After work, you stop in and bring her dinner before you rush to the Wilson's to pick up Nathan and Blythe. You pick up the kids, feed them (typically something drive through and greasy), take them home, put them to bed, and pass out. In the morning, you frantically feed Blythe and Nathan breakfast, stick Blythe on the bus, drop Nathan with Emily and speed to the hospital.

You don't know how long you can keep up this pace, but you refuse to tell Allison anything but positives.

Your leg hurts, and the pill count that you'd so carefully whittled down starts to climb again. Two to get out of bed, two before you eat lunch, one pill at three, two before you pick up Blythe and Nathan from Emily after work. If you can get the kids fed and in bed within two hours of picking up them, you don't have to pop pills in front of them.

You find yourself watching the clock as Blythe sits with you, telling you about her day, and you tuck Nathan in without a story more than you read to him. Twice, you've caught Blythe sneaking into his room with a book tucked under her arm.

You can't go on like this. Eventually, Allison and the baby are going to come home, and you're not going to let her see you strung out on Vicodin while your 7 year old daughter plays mommy to her little brother.

Emily watches you unravel and offers to take the kids for a night; you sit in front of the TV with a glass of Scotch and remember when this was your life, when you had no Allison, no Blythe, no Nathan.

The next day you dump the bottle of Scotch down the drain, the Vicodin down the toilet and pick up Blythe from school during your lunch break for an impromptu lunch China Garden.

You are not going to fuck this up again.

After lunch, you take Blythe to the store and she helps you pick out a little white basinet for the baby, and a little dresser that'll fit in the corner of your bedroom. You give her a basket and point at the baby clothes, and a half hour later the basket is overflowing with purple clothes.

You're better at this whole baby thing than you were when Nathan was young, but apparently new technology has rendered "new baby shopping" into something akin for shopping for a new computer. Which parts, which brand, and do you really need the little spinning tower to hold baby socks? The machine for diapers that is "biologically friendly"?

You wish Allison could be here to help with this.

In the end, you get the basinet and a little dresser. The baby has to take up residence in the corner of the Master Bedroom anyway, and while it's a big room, it's not huge. If you move and the baby gets her own room, you'll get more furniture then. Blythe has a handle on the baby clothes, as well as stuffed animals and a fish mobile for the basinet. You buy several packages of bottles, wipes, and you glance at the diapers.

Blythe...wasn't that small when you brought her home, you think, but you don't really remember. You wonder if you're ever going to stop regretting what you did, but you doubt it. You can picture Nathan the first time you saw him, though, and your guess is that this baby probably isn't going to be much bigger. You throw a pack of preemie diapers in the cart and try not to think about what could go wrong between now and the baby's birthday.

By the time you pick up Nathan from the Wilson's and get the baby's supplies unloaded, your leg is screaming. Probably dumping out your Vicodin was not your smartest move.

You mumble, "Be right back," to Blythe and take off for your room. Blythe does her best for Nathan, pulling a Lunchable out of the fridge and sitting him down to eat dinner with a glass of milk before she comes to find you sitting on the edge of your bed.

"Your leg hurts, Daddy," she said quietly, offering you an ice pack wrapped in a towel.

"Yeah," you grunt, taking the ice pack. You know it will do no good, but your little girl is trying so hard.

"If you want to lie down, I can tuck Nathan in tonight," she offers, sitting on the bed next to you and taking your hand.

"I'll be right there," you tell her firmly, "I just need a minute."

"Where's your medicine?" she asks innocently, and you want to crawl under the bed and die. You should have known she was too smart not to notice.

"I don't have any," you shrug, trying to change the topic. She is seven, she's not old enough to have to deal with your problems. She will never be old enough to deal with your problems; you want to protect her forever.

"Do you still have some in the office?" she asks, and now you really feel like a horrible father. Not only have you taken enough pills in front of Blythe to allow her to figure out they are for your leg, you've taken enough for her to realize you have them stashed all over the house. You feel even worse because you are relieved you have Vicodin left.

"Why don't you and Nathan go watch a video?" you say, instead of answering her, "You guys can stay up a little later tonight."

She grins, "Okay," she says, giving you a little hug before she stands up, "I love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, Blythe," you manage, and you want to cry.

She takes Nathan into the family room and you limp to the office, finding the Vicodin in your drawer and dry swallowing two.

You sink down into your desk chair and drop your head into your hands. You feel like you're trying to juggle eight hundred things at once, and you're scared you're going to drop everything – and this time, there will be no picking up the pieces.


	4. Chapter 4

Emily brings Blythe and Nathan to the hospital to surprise Allison after you finish work. You're sitting on the bed next to her when the kids come in, and Allison's entire face lights up. Blythe carefully lifts Nathan to the bed before climbing up, and both kids curl around Allison, carefully of her tummy.

"How's the baby?" Blythe asks, her hand hovering over Allison's tummy.

"She's good," Allison says, gently pushing Blythe's hand down to feel the baby kick, "I miss you and Nathan. Tell me about school."

"Boring," Blythe shrugs, but with no real malice, "I already finished all the books on the list. They only had easy reader chapter books."

"Maybe Daddy will take you shopping?" Allison directs her response to you, and you nod.

"We'll go tomorrow when I pick you and Nathan up," you tell her, and her face brightens; the exact same expression Allison gave you when you walked in with your children not ten minutes ago.

"And how's my Nathan bug?" Allison laughs, pulling his little body closer to her. He laughs and snuggles against her.

"I'm good, Mommy!" he chirps, kissing her face, "I love you."

Allison kisses his forehead, "I love you too, Bug. Mommy will be home soon, and then you'll be a big brother."

Nathan grins, excited about the baby. Blythe has tried to explain to him what it will be like, told him stories about how when he was a baby, she got to feed him and now, Nathan can't wait to help with his little sister.

"I have to go potty, Daddy," he says, squirming away from Allison and you nod.

"You want to hang out with Mama?" you ask Blythe, who nods and sits up on the bed with Allison, "Okay. We men will be right back," you say importantly, motioning for Nathan to follow you with a tip of your head.

You're glad he's potty trained himself before the baby comes home, and you help him wash his hands and are down the hall from Allison's room when you hear Blythe's little voice.

"Daddy hurts," she is telling Allison, "He needs more medicine so he doesn't hurt any more. Why can't you give him medicine to make him feel better? When I'm sick, the doctors make me feel better…aren't you a doctor?"

Shit.

You walk into the room, debating if you should pretend like you didn't hear that, or if you need to address it. Allison takes care of it for you.

"Why don't you take the kids to see Uncle James or Lisa?" she asks carefully, rubbing Blythe's back. You grunt, and Blythe kisses Allison's cheek and follows you to Wilson's office.

"Ten minutes?" you ask, pointing at the kids.

"Not a problem," Wilson replies easily, pointing at a small basket in the corner of his office; Nathan dives for the toys he keeps for the children of his patients, "I'm just wrapping up some charts before I head home – I think Emily headed over to McDonalds with the kids after she dropped off Blythe and Nathan. You and Allison want some alone time?"

"Something like that," you mutter, "Be right back."

You return to Allison's room slowly, because you know you have screwed up. You sink down into the plastic chair next to her bed and study your shoes.

"So," she says, reaching for your hand and rubbing her thumb gently across the back of your hand, "How bad is it?"

"Not good," you mutter, "I can handle it. I'm just…" No. No, you are not going to pin this on her. This is not her fault.

"I know it's been hard," she offers quietly, "It's not easy laying in this bed, knowing you're not only have to do your job, but that you have to be both mother and father to the kids. But…"

"I hurt, okay?" you snap, more angrily than you intended. "My leg hurts. I'm not addicted; I'm exhausted."

"If you need help, my mom can come…or the kids can go visit either set of grandparents for awhile…"

"Right, because sending the kids to my father is going to help everything get better."

Allison sighs, laying her head back against the pillow, "Dr. Lyndonsyn is hoping that I can make 34 weeks before she takes me off medicine. That gives the baby the best chance over all; there's medicine I'll be put on before I have her that will help strengthen her lungs. That's two weeks away, Greg. And then I'll be home, but so will the baby."

"I know that," you say stiffly, "I have everything under control, I don't want you to worry."

"Well what else am I supposed to do?" she shouts, "I'm stuck here, I can't help with anything. I lay in bed all damn day – my great adventure today was when the nurse put me in a wheelchair and I got to go outside for a half hour."

"You weren't supposed to know," you mutter, "I didn't think Blythe was going to say anything. I'll be fine by the time you and the baby come home."

"It's not easy doing all of this on your own, Greg. It's okay to ask for help…"

"I have help!" you shout, and now you just feel bad because you're yelling at your pregnant wife, "I have poor Emily watching Nathan all day, and Blythe at night, I have Wilson driving them around, I don't need any more help. What I need is a different leg!"

Allison's lower lip starts to tremble and now you just feel like an ass, "Don't cry, Allison," you sigh, "It's the same for me, though – you have to understand; while you're laying here worried about us, I'm running around out there worried about you and the baby."

Allison sighs again and nods, "Alright. So we'll just muddle through the next couple of weeks, and we'll see where that puts us, okay?"

"What else can we do?" you ask honestly. While you know you're going to need your Vicodin, you don't need the Scotch. You'll just have to do what you did when Blythe was little, and cut down one at a time again.

"Yeah," she mutters, and she looks miserable, "I'm sorry I'm stuck here," she says quietly, "It wasn't my intention to –" 

"Of course you didn't want this," you stop her, "Look. You worry about the baby. I'll worry about the house, and in a couple weeks, everything's going to be fine."

"Okay," she says softly, her free hand over her stomach like she can protect the baby through sheer willpower.

You kiss her goodbye and leave, still feeling guilty as hell. You go up to Wilson's office and find Blythe with Nathan tucked up against her side as she reads to him.

"Hey, guys," you greet them, and Blythe's head pops up, "Let's go home?"

"Okay, Daddy," Nathan says, sliding off the couch and coming over to you. Blythe closes the book and carefully puts it back in the basket where she found it.

"Good night, Uncle Jimmy," she says, "Thanks for letting us play with the toys."

"Night Blythe," Wilson smiles at her and then glances over at you, eyebrow raised. You'll talk later, "Night Greg, Nathan."

That night, you tuck them in and make time to read them each a story. When they are asleep, you put together the basinet and the dresser, and carefully unpack the tiny clothes. Distractions keep your mind off your leg, and thinking about the new baby makes it easier to resist the pills.

You can do this, because there is not going to be a third chance.


	5. Chapter 5

The next two weeks seem to take forever, but you can't forget Allison's worried face and that makes cutting back on the Vicodin easier. You work on taking it when your leg starts to hurt, instead of as a preventative, and you slowly realize that you really don't need to take as much as you think you do. You have more important things to worry about, and Blythe's rapid-fire snark and Nathan's toothy smile are constant reminders of those things.

Finally, they take Allison off the medication and three hours after that, she goes into labor. She is 34 weeks along, and beyond ready to have the baby. You are there for this one, and you get to hold her hand while she pushes, and feed her ice chips and smooth her hair back from her forehead. You want to be completely in the moment, even as she whimpers and clutches your hand, because this is your child, and you get to be here for her entire life.

Seven hour later, Emma Grace House is born and you watch with amazed eyes, because she is beautiful. She's so tiny…was Blythe this tiny?

They take her away sooner than you'd like, but she's breathing well and the doctor comes in to reassure you both that Emma will be home soon, she just needs some time in the NICU to help her lungs grow and make sure she is doing well.

You go down to Wilson's office and tell him to go see "The newest House." Ten minutes later he finds you in Allison's room, a huge smile on his face.

"Emma Grace?" he asks, thrilled, and you nod.

"James is sort of a weird name for a girl," you shrug, "Hope Emily and your mom are close enough." Had Emma been a boy, you would have used his name – after all, you have your own little namesake running around in the Wilson house.

The next day, you take time off work and come in to pick up Allison. The corner of your bedroom has been set up for Emma– you really do need to move, you think – but Allison seems delighted as she looks over the basinet and the little dresser that you and Blythe have stocked with clothes.

The house is strangely empty without Emma, even though she's never been there. Having Allison home is wonderful, but it still feels like something is missing. The basinet has sat empty in the corner for two weeks, but now it's i really /i empty and when you look at it all you can picture is your little girl in her plastic incubator at the hospital.

Eleven days later, Emma comes home and everything seems a hundred times better.

Blythe is an amazing big sister, jumping in with both feet; holding, and feeding Emma with a calm grace that reminds you so much of her mother. She helps Nathan hold Emma's little head, and sets a pillow in his lap so he can help feed the baby also. She's only seven, but she seems so grown up with Nathan and Emma. Allison is careful that Blythe doesn't turn into Emma's nanny, but you love watching your three kids together. You hope they always love each other this much.

Blythe's 8th birthday is three days after Emma is home, and you can already tell that June and July are going to be whirlwind months, because somehow the kids' birthdays have lined up almost exactly two weeks apart, starting with Nathan, then Emma, and then Blythe.

Blythe gets her first medical journal and her first lab coat for her birthday; presents from Uncle James and Auntie Emily. She wants to be a pediatrician, and she reads books like they're going out of style. At eight, she is smarter than the majority of her class (and most of the kids in middle school, but Blythe won't let you brag). She often joins the older students for reading and math. She spends an hour a day in the first grade classroom, helping the children through Dr. Seuss book, her voice patient even when the children struggle.

She is the most amazing combination of you and Allison and you suspect one day, she's going to rock the world.

Neither Blythe nor Nathan slept through the night until they were three months old, or so Allison tells you as she pours her fourth cup of coffee in the morning. She's trying so hard to breastfeed, but she has to get out of bed every time the baby cries. You tell her just to put Emma in bed with the two of you for a little while and Allison looks ashamed.

"What? Co-sleeping is supposed to be –" you start to explain, because you've read all the books this time and you know all the different parenting techniques; you even bought a sling for Allison to carry Emma in.

"We can't co-sleep because of the Vicodin," Allison mumbles, "because it makes you sleep too heavily. It's fine; Emma will start sleeping through the night soon…it's okay if I take longer than six weeks to come back to work, I'll talk to Lisa."

"Oh," you say, and you stand up, leaning on your cane. You can't quit the Vicodin – you really aren't addicted anymore, you just need it because of the pain. You thought the battle was losing your emotional dependence on it, but it looks like your pain management is causing problems too, "Well, maybe I could sleep on the couch for awhile, and you and Emma can –"

"Greg," Allison sighs, meeting your eyes over her coffee cup, "Stop it. It's not your fault, and it's fine. Nathan did the same thing to me, you remember."

You do remember the day she showed up at your apartment with Nathan, looking like she hadn't slept for a month. You realize then that poor Allison has done all the work for all three children, at least while they were tiny, and you kick yourself.

"Why don't we start Emma on bottles?" you offer, "and then I can get up with her. If I don't wake up when she cries, just wake me up. . .you'll get a little more sleep that way?"

Allison's eyes soften and she smiles at you, "It's alright, honestly. You have to work, it makes more sense for me to get up with her. But thank you," she says, smiling, "you're welcome to watch her when you get home from work."

You laugh, because Emma is all you watch when you get home from work. You are turning into one of those idiot fathers with the wallet that has the drop out picture holder, and you show your children off to anyone who will give you enough time to spit out their names and ages.

The only person worse than you is Wilson, and you think part of it is because the two of you never expected this; this i family /i that honestly, neither of you deserve.

You try for one fun night a week, the nine of you crammed into your house, and you love to watch the kids. You and Wilson play cards at the table, Allison and Emily sit with the babies, Nathan and Gregory chase Blythe around the house.

"Uncle Jimmy," she says one night, panting from running away from the boys and their little foam guns, "This is not fair." She places her hands on her hips and points, "Gregory is almost the same age as Nathan. Isabel is almost the same age as Emma. Where is MY friend?"

Wilson laughs, and pulls Blythe onto his lap. For all her big words and intelligent, your daughter is still the smallest child in her class. What she lacks in high she makes up in snark, and you think that's probably a good trade.

"I didn't meet Aunt Emily fast enough," he tells her, handing her his cards, "You wanna help me beat Daddy at Poker?"

Blythe squeals and tucks herself closer to Wilson, laying her back against his chest and listening as he whispers and points at cards, explaining the rules of the game.

"Should eight year olds be learning how to play poker?" you mumble at Allison fifteen minutes later.

"You're only mad because she's winning," she laughs, and turns to Blythe, "Good girl."

After the card game, you all head out into the backyard for fireworks. You missed the 4th of July, what with Allison being in the hospital and you being a moron, so you're making up for it now. Blythe gets her revenge and chases Nathan and Gregory with her sparkler, but you can see her holding back and letting them escape.

"You know, it would be nice if at least one of our children got my mean streak," you tease, just as Nathan turns around and tackles Blythe. You startle for a moment, but the sparkler has burned out, and no one caught fire.

"There, happy now?" Allison says, snickering as Blythe shouts dramatically for help, "If he were any more yours, he'd have a cane."

You laugh and scoop up Emma in your arms, kissing her nose. She is tiny – she wasn't even supposed to be here for another three weeks -- but she fits just right in your arms, like she was supposed to be yours.

"Sorry you were born into a family of loonies," you tell her, tickling her stomach. She kicks her feet and you swear that she smiles at you, no matter how many times Allison tells you it's just gas. You really don't care, because you know.

Wilson finishes the burgers and you hand out plates and pass around a bag of chips, and as you settle down in a chair with Emma in one arm and your supper in the other, you think you could probably do this for the rest of your life.


End file.
